Friday, March 14, 2008

7 years. I had that moonstone ring for seven years, and then I go and lose it.I don't even know where or how I lost it; just realized that the stone had fallen out when I casually looked at my hands during rehearsals.

People say I can just get another stone fixed on to it, 'cos only the stone was lost. Technically, I still have the ring. Throw all technicality out of the window. I have lost the ring. Forever. Damn.

If I had to lose it, wish I had lost it totally. I could have watched it slip out of my finger and fall into a pit, or maybe my six year old nephew could have thrown it into the river, the way he threw my cellphone. But no, I am left with the metal caricature of the once fine and shining ring, and I don't even have the memory of my loss to mull on. Sigh.

There's a poem we had selected for a poetry reading last year. It just makes perfect sense all of a sudden; not that I ever doubted what Elizabeth Bishop had to say.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster.

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It’s so weird when people ask you who you are and you end up offering details about what you do.
I am still figuring out who I am but I'll tell you some of what I do. I work. I write. I read. I love poetry. I am single, but sometimes I am plural. I am different people rolled into one. I am cynical. I am passionate. I love early mornings. I love late nights. I hate what comes in between. I love music. I love theatre. I can’t stand melodrama. I cannot live or survive or even exist without coffee.
That's pretty much the short version of me.